Words, Weapons and Weight
by Quinis
Summary: Written for the prompt: Neal is always been a non violent criminal, he never hurt anyone. But this time, after the kidnapping, he is forced to kill one of the kidnappers for self defense, before Peter arrives. One shot.


**Words, Weapons and Weight**

* * *

A prompt by starcoffee on the White Collar Hurt/Comfort community's Abduct-a-Palooza II

_Neal is always been a non violent criminal, he never hurt anyone. But this time, after the kidnapping, he is forced to kill one of the kidnappers for self defense, before Peter arrives. How this is going to affect him? Even if it was self-defense, is he going to be traumatized? What Peter will do to help him?_

**Notes: **Okay, so I read the prompt and this is what came to mind. There are two quotes in here, both from books (I think – I haven't read them). The first is from _Eva Luna _and the second is from_ The Issa Valley._

* * *

They found him in a pool of blood with the one of the kidnappers' heads resting in his lap. He was dirty and mussed with the stains of tear-tracks starkly white across his cheeks.

Peter didn't know what to do. The gun sitting by his side and the wound in the kidnapper's stomach painted the picture of a captive forced to kill in self defence.

Neal didn't even look up as they entered. He didn't react until EMTs tried to pull him away. Eyes unfocused, he lashed out, kicking and screaming until they were forced to sedate him.

Peter turned away. Jones cleared his throat in order to cover up whatever sympathetic noise he made. Diana had to leave.

Neal spent the next two weeks in a hospital bed. At first, he was sleepy, confused and not all there. But, as the days past, the man Peter had gotten to know came back. He greeted them with tired eyes and small smiles, then a larger smile and a wave as he tried to convince them he was fine.

By the time he was to be discharged, he was dressed in the Devore suit which June had brought with his hat in hand and a confident smile on his face. The bruises had mostly faded and those that weren't, he hid either under make-up or his clothes.

However, Neal hadn't spoken a word.

* * *

_ ...In the chaos that followed a gun came spinning across the floor towards him. Neal knew he didn't have any other way to defend himself, his head was spinning and he was weak, so he picked it up._

_"Caffrey!" the voice was furious and angry and he reacted instinctively, shooting the threat in the stomach. A curse and the sound of a body hitting the ground. The hot smell of the discharge and the weight in his hands made him tremble. "Neal," the voice called weakly from the ground. It took him a moment to realise he had his eyes squeezed shut. _

_"Neal, listen to me..."_

* * *

He knew that this was probably some warped version of Stockholm Syndrome. The man had kidnapped him and locked him up in a cage in the basement and Neal was spending his time trying really hard to remember him.

To remember those last words he had said as his life drained away. He had spoken at length as he lay there dying and Neal had forgotten what he said. He knew that it was shock that made it hard for him to remember but, as the person who killed him and sat by his side as he passed, Neal had to remember. He had to. It was important. He couldn't put it all behind him until he remembered. And the idea came to him sometime while he was drifting between consciousnesses;

He wouldn't speak until he remembered the man's last words. His voice would remain back there, in captivity.

He knew that he would have to go back to his life and if he hadn't remembered the man by then, there was every chance that he would forget.

* * *

_~"People die only when we forget them..."~_

* * *

It was almost like penance. The thought was calming. Yes, he knew it wasn't murder but he had still taken a man's life. This was something he could do. The more he thought, the better the plan sounded. It wasn't like he had any other ideas.

When he woke, he planned. He could type or write messages, carry around a pen and paper and maybe even learn a bit of ASL.

He smiled and did his best to reassure everyone that he was okay. But, he was careful to not speak.

* * *

He saw the confusion on Mozzie's face, his oldest friend unable to understand why he didn't just say something.

He saw the upset and frustrated look on Peter's face, the look of someone who wanted to help but didn't know how. Peter suggested a psychiatrist but, Neal managed to convince him otherwise. It helped that the last time he had talked to someone like that, it had been for a case and the only good that came out of it was the money and the arrest.

Elizabeth visited only once, she was the first to explain everything that had happened while he was gone. In the explanation was an apology because she could only visit that day and would be flying back to DC the next morning; her new job was keeping her busy. She talked to him and didn't seem to mind that he wrote his responses on a pad of paper. After that, they were exchanging emails so his vow of silence wouldn't be an issue; it had been her suggestion.

June offered his old room back, as always. She said she would inform the staff of his new difficulty so they knew what to expect. She didn't seem too fazed by his lack of voice but, she did look worried whenever anyone else brought it up.

Neal was sorry that they were worried, he even carried around a piece of paper with those words on it, showing it to them whenever he felt like saying the words. It had to be replayed because it was worn before he left the hospital.

* * *

Even though he was still working with the FBI as a CI, he found that he wasn't allowed to go undercover anymore.

"'Why'?" Peter read off his paper pad. The older man sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I thought that would be obvious, Neal. You're not talking and we can't send someone undercover when they don't have a voice, it's too dangerous."

[There's more to going undercover than having a voice,] Neal wrote, moving the pad towards Peter in an insistent manner.

"No," Peter said, "and that's final. Go help Jones work out his new cover."

Neal glared at him, letting him know that he wasn't happy with this, before storming out of Peter's office.

At least it was always fun coming up with new identities and Jones listened to his suggestions, which were scrawled all over papers.

* * *

At first, Neal found it difficult to remain silent. He always had something to say and even opened his mouth a few times to add something before catching himself. But, as days became weeks, he found it easier and easier to just write his responses, use his expressions and body language or mime and make motions.

He stopped opening his mouth when he wanted to say something and began automatically reaching for the nearest pen instead.

* * *

He remembered slowly. _He had been locked up but that was nothing new. They took shifts watching him and there were times when he wasn't watched at all. He tried escaping but, it was difficult without any tools. _

_ The little food they gave him had to be eaten by hand and water was given to him in a plastic sippy cup. It was demeaning but, he understood why they did it. A glass could be turned into a weapon. It wasn't as easy to break a sippy cup as they were designed to be sturdy._

_ There only appeared to be three of them. The one he had confronted that day was strict and seemed to be in charge. Of the other two, one was softer than the rest._

_ Neal took advantage of that, talking to the man and gaining his trust. He found out that the man had lost his job and his savings and was about to lose his house when he was offered this job._

_ He took it because he thought that Neal Caffrey was a criminal who deserved to be in prison and not walking the streets. That's how he justified this criminal act to himself. But, Neal felt his opinion shift as they talked. Finally, he came in one night during his shift and said he was going to take Neal back to the FBI. _

* * *

Neal drew. He remembered the man's face now. He drew it over and over again. He drew it in different styles. He drew it in pencil, in pen, in paint, in colour, in monochromes, over and over and over.

Mozzie stared at them and they would vanish when he did. Peter's gaze slid over them and he spent time suggesting other things for Neal to draw, even going as far as to suggest pieces for Neal to copy or forge.

Neal heard the 'anything but that face' that went unsaid. So, he started hiding his drawing books and his canvases from everyone.

* * *

_"I'm sorry, Neal. I'm sorry that... I was part of this." He knew he was dying. Neal didn't tell him otherwise. The man chuckled and two tears ran down his face. "I'm a fool. What are... my two daughters... going to do without... me?"_

* * *

The man had two daughters. Neal wasn't certain when exactly he remembered that, but it shot through his head during a meeting about a Mortgage Fraud case involving a family being kicked out of their property. He spent the rest of the meeting tapping his foot against the ground and wishing that it was over so that he could talk to Peter.

[The men who kidnapped me, who are they?] Neal wrote.

Peter hesitated and Neal placed the pad in front of him and pushed it forward in silent insistence that he answer.

"Neal, do you really need to know?"

Neal nodded and gave Peter his most serious expression. If he could find out about that man, then he could find out what happened to his two daughters. It was something he could do, for the man who he manipulated into saving him and the man he killed.

* * *

_"What are you doing?" It was either bad timing or bad luck that saw the other men walk in as the man opened the cage Neal was locked in. They started fighting, the man managed to get one of them, and Neal crawled out._

_"Caffrey!" The remaining one spotted him._

_ He fired._

_ The remaining one ran as the man who had tried to help him went down. He would be picked up by Peter later and would lead the FBI to Neal's prison._

* * *

Peter reluctantly placed the file in front of Neal. He flipped through it, looking for the face which haunted his dreams every night.

There! The man's name was listed with his age and cause of death. Neal swallowed down the urge to throw up. If he left or threw up, Peter wouldn't let him see the files again.

"Neal? You okay?" Peter asked.

Neal nodded, although they both knew it was a lie.

The man's last known address, the home where his family was living, was also listed. His wife went on record as not knowing what he had done until the FBI turned up on her doorstep.

She mentioned their daughters. Two young girls, aged four and six.

The youngest liked goats.

* * *

_"Can you believe it? Goats! She... saw one on some kids... show. Been obsessed with them since. My eldest... she said she wants... she wants a dog. Her birthday's comin' up... I thought... with the money..." He wheezed out a laugh. "My wife's going to be so mad. Tell her I'm sorry, will you?" _

_ His eyes closed from exertion and, an undeterminable time later, his chest stopped rising and falling. _

* * *

Neal threw up into the wastebasket. His eyes watered as he was forced to confront what he had done. He had killed a man, stolen a father from his daughters and a husband from his wife. There was nothing he could do to fix that.

Nothing he could do to change that.

Peter took him home.

* * *

He painted. He painted the man's face again and, this time, he didn't hide the canvas. He didn't let Mozzie take it either. He recalled the address listed in the file, thankfully inside his radius but he would have gone outside it if he had to, and turned up on the doorstep.

It was crazy but, he wanted to do something, anything, for the family he had destroyed.

He knocked. The woman who answered reminded him a little of his mother. The same shadows hung in her eyes and the same deep weariness in the lines of her face.

She was frowning but he didn't let that stop him. He didn't smile but he handed her the objects in his hands.

"What's this?" she asked, hefting the parcel and looking curiously at the envelope.

Neal motioned towards the envelope as it was better that she read what he had written first.

He had started with introducing himself and telling a little of his story. Then, he wrote about his imprisonment. About talking with her husband, the only one who would chat with him during long hours when he couldn't tell if it was night or day.

About her husband's heroic decision to save him and his last words to Neal. As the tears began to fall down her face, Neal realised that this was why it was important he remember. So he could tell whomever the man left behind that he wasn't a bad man.

The letter ended with Neal's confession. Of how he shot and killed the man who tried to help. He didn't ask for forgiveness, he only stated what happened from his own point of view. It also said that, if they were ever in any kind trouble, she only had to see June Ellington and that she or he would do their best to help. The offering of June's assistance had been her idea, something she said she wanted added after she proofed the letter for him.

When she was finished, she carefully placed the letter back in its envelope and opened the parcel.

It was the painting of her husband. He had a kind expression on his face and the positioning on the canvas gave the impression that he was looking down kindly at you.

* * *

_ ~"The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them."~_

* * *

When Neal stepped off that doorstep, he felt a great weight diminish. It wasn't gone but, it was bearable. It was now a scar that would stay with him forever, like Kate's and Ellen's deaths.

His stomach growled and he stopped off at a local food place for a meal before going home.

* * *

There were a lot of things that Neal didn't notice until this. He hadn't noticed how little he had been eating until his stomach started complaining. He hadn't noticed how much time he had been spending indoors until he started feeling slightly claustrophobic inside. He hadn't noticed how much time he had spent staring into nothing until he started doing things with his day again.

He hadn't noticed how much time he had been spending alone until he spent that weekend without any interruptions. His phone hadn't even gone off with some cryptic message from Mozzie.

The isolation began to grate at him and he was relieved when Monday morning came along and Peter came up to his apartment.

"Morning, Peter," Neal greeted as he read the paper and drank his coffee. It still felt strange to use his voice after so long but, he would adjust.

And the shocked look on Peter's face was almost enough to make him laugh.


End file.
